


Mr. Spike and the Shattered Detective

by redeem147



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Monk - Fandom
Genre: Crossover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-12
Updated: 2011-08-12
Packaged: 2017-10-22 13:03:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/238321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redeem147/pseuds/redeem147
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dru left. Trudy died. Maybe they have something in common.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mr. Spike and the Shattered Detective

He stumbled out of yet another bar. It really was the perfect combination. All the booze on tap he could drink, long as he left room for the drunks staggering out of the bathrooms he could pull into the dark corners and drain. Sort of happy hour two for one.

He’d been working his way through California. He kept planning to jump a cargo ship and head back to South America. Sweep up Dru and drag her somewhere, Europe maybe, but he lacked resolve. He kept hearing the sound of her laughter, ringing gaily, as he realized he’d been cuckolded. She just didn’t get why he was upset.

He needed another drink. Couldn’t be far to the next bar.

He heard a little sob. Nothing really loud, but his ears picked it up. Some foolish sot, crying alone on a park bench in the middle of the night. Sounded right depressed. Be a blessing to put the poor thing out of his misery, really.

He got closer, close enough to see. He didn’t see what he expected. This was no drunk. If he smelled of alcohol it was the rubbing kind. The stranger was immaculately groomed in a brown suit, his curly black hair freshly washed and combed. He seemed to be sitting on a handkerchief.

“Are you going to kill me?” the little man asked.

Spike took a step back. “No, I... Well, yeah. Maybe.”

“I wouldn’t mind you know. Not really.”

This was no challenge, which was rapidly taking the fun out of the whole thing. Spike swept his duster up over the back of the bench and sat beside the stranger. “What’s eating you?” he asked. “Side’s me, of course.”

“Trudy,” he whispered, breaking into another little sob.

“Bird troubles?”

“My wife. She’s dead.”

“Oh.” Spike felt a sudden rush of unwanted sympathy for the man. Dru may be dead, but it didn’t mean he wouldn’t get her back. This little man was shit out of luck. “What happened?”

He sat for a moment. Seemed to be trying to order the explanation, rather than avoid the subject. “There was a car bomb. An explosion. She was killed instantly.”

“Bugger that.” Spike sat a moment in silence, trying to think up a response. “You in the mob or something then?”

“I’m a police officer. Or I was.”

“Was?”

“Yes,” he said, a wistful tone in his voice. “They fired me today.”

“Bastards. Your wife snuffs it, and they sack you. Disgusting.”

The man shook his head. “No, I understand. I have trouble, well, functioning. I really couldn’t do the job anymore. But it was all I had, my life, Trudy and my job.” The man looked up at Spike, his brown eyes full of tears. “So, if you want to kill me, I won’t stop you.”

“Right.”

“But don’t bite me.”

“How did you...”

The man concentrated. “Your breath smells of blood. It has a distinctive, coppery sort of scent. Your clothes are a bit dated, but you’re well groomed. Your skin is flawless. You accent is of a higher class than you let on. You try to mask it. In fact, from the intonation, I would suspect upper-middle class Victorian?”

Spike was enraptured. “You’re good. Really. You could get a job at a club or something.”

“I would say you aren’t a typical vampire. You’ve obviously been drinking alcohol, quite a bit for your metabolism. The average nosferatu shuns human pleasures, from what I understand. They may drink in camaraderie in order to entice their victims, but you’ve been drinking considerably more than that. You sway to an extent that were you human, I believe you would have passed out by now. What’s wrong?”

Spike slumped a bit. “Dru. My bird. She left me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Left me for a chaos demon. And he wasn’t the first. She’s been cheating on me for years, I reckon, and I always turned a blind eye.” Spike bent forward, his face in his hands, tears starting to flow. “God, I love her.”

The man pulled another handkerchief out of his breast pocket, covered his hand and patted Spike on the shoulder. “That’s too bad. Really.”

“Now she’s off in South America some where and I can’t get up the nerve to win her back.”

“Is that what you want?”

Spike thought for a moment. “I do. I think. Not like it was before.”

“Maybe what you really want is someone to love.”

“Maybe so.” Spike nodded. “Maybe so.” He held out his hand. “I’m Spike.”

The man looked startled. “Um, wait.” He unwrapped the handkerchief from his left hand and wrapped it around the right. “Adrian Monk,” he said, thrusting it forward. He shook Spike’s hand, then pulled back his own. He took the handkerchief and gingerly stood, dropping it with two fingers into the wastebasket beside the bench. He sat down again, pulled a wet wipe from the pack in his pocket, and rubbed at his fingers with vigour.

“Right,” Spike said, when he was done. “Why shouldn’t I bite you, then? If you still want to die.”

“Do you know how many germs are in the human mouth? I assume the vampires, with the blood drinking, have even more. You don’t know where their victims have been, either. What diseases they might carry.”

Spike stared at him. “But why would you care? You’d be dead.”

“I care.”

Spike shook his head, trying to comprehend. “Hey, I know. I could turn you. In fact, you remind me of an old mate who got unfortunately incinerated. Miss him more than I thought I would. We could hang out. Vampires don’t get diseases. You’d be fine.”

Monk’s eyes widened in horror. “Please, don’t make me a vampire. I couldn’t bear the thought of sinking my teeth into someone’s neck. What if they hadn’t washed? What if they were wearing perfume? What if...?”

“I get it. No siring.”

“I know. You could break my neck. Do you have any gloves?”

Spike stood up. “Look, mate. I’m not going to kill you. I’m giving you a pass. But please, for the love of Jack Daniels, get some help. You’re more pathetic than I am.”

Monk nodded and stood up. “Will you do me a favour?”

“You’re pushing this.”

“I understand.” He started to step away.

“What do you want then?”

“Will you walk me home?”

He walked the man safely though the San Francisco streets, and hated himself in the morning.


End file.
